The creatures that erupted from the ground, scurrying on their spidery legs, mouths snapping, wings folded tight at their body, swarmed toward them. As a child, growing up in the brothel in Syracuse or with whichever friend of his mother they might have stayed with, cockroaches and spiders had scared him. But that was something that had been burned out of him long ago. In the deserts and hidden monasteries, caves and long abandoned ruins, tunnels and dead villages, centipedes and scorpions and spiders and other chittering crawly things were common enough over the decades- and his pride big enough- that he had lost all fear of them. The spawn of the god-wars were hellish and creative enough to make such things seem insignificant.

So he did not feel fear, exactly. Not an irrational fear to put water in his bones. No, rather, his focus narrowed and his heartrate accelerated, his breathing increased, flooding his body with oxygen. Peripherally aware of his companions he stepped forward and drew his telescoping blade, the deadly edge flipping out with the flick of wrist, all in one motion as he positioned himself, a rock against which this tide must break. Valeriya burst past him, flashes of wicked metal at either hand, a hungry scream in her voice, and he smiled, even as his carbon steel found its first mark. He wasn't worried for her. She could take care of herself. Patricus and Rowan, however, would need assistance.

They all had a role to play. It would seem enemies would make sure the four of them did not reach their destination.

Icy sweat beaded hot on his face as he spun about, a dancing dust devil, hacking and slashing at the horde. It was not without some injury. There were many of them. But none that stopped or slowed him.